


Like Putting Wings on Lead

by bedfordfalls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Not really a ship focused fic but it Is There just for that good old throwback, uhhhh canon typical light violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-29 23:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14483574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedfordfalls/pseuds/bedfordfalls
Summary: Jim Moriarty, in six stages.





	Like Putting Wings on Lead

He was Jimmy to his parents up until he was ten, or at least to his mother. Her precious boy, she said almost mockingly. The nickname was grating to him, like sandpaper across his skin. When he was younger, he would correct her under his breath, whisper “James” and look away, and by the time he had reached his eleventh birthday, he had taken to screaming the correction instead. She learned after that to only call him James. On days when he was in a good mood, however, he did grow to be fond of Jim, or at least fond enough to hear it said without such familiar childhood shudders. 

His father was less of a figure in his life, maybe once a source of fear in his early childhood, but by adolescence not more than a nuisance that Jim did his best to avoid. Jim toyed with the idea of killing him, but the time and involvement of making it neat and clean outweighed the satisfaction possible from the act. 

***

He first learned what it felt like to kill a few months after his thirteenth birthday, watching with not-quite-muted contentment as Carl Powers drowned. There was almost a grace to his near-death spasms, as if this was the sole thing he had been born to do. The rush of power was like nothing Jim had ever felt before. He was God, and no one could touch Him.

There was no guilt in the following days, no remorse, no regret. There was no reason for him to regret what he had done, after all. It was a simple equation, one deed to punish another. Carl had laughed at him during class, told him to stop acting like such a fag, or some such thing. Jim hadn't understood exactly which of his mannerisms had lead Carl to this perception of his sexuality, but it was no matter. Carl Powers was dead now, and Jim was alive. Survival of the fittest. 

***

By the time he was fifteen, Jim had killed thrice more, and was completely and endlessly bored. He passed his classes with excellent marks in math and science, and did tolerably in the rest. His school had long since stopped calling his mother when he got in trouble, preferring to just send him to the counselor’s office, where he sat in sullen silence as a woman adorned in faux pearls asked him if he was okay in a honeyed, patronising tone. Her talks ranged from “James, you must stop arguing so much with your teachers” to “We’re worried about you, James, worried you might do something to yourself. Or to someone else.”

He logged everything she said without response, inwardly almost laughing at her ignorance. Worried. He visualised the feeling of running his fingertips along the wide hypertrophic scars across his thighs. He visualised Carl’s eyes, glassy and bloodshot against impossibly pale skin. Worried.

“I assure you, there is nothing to be worried about.”

He shot a smile to the counselor as he left the room, insincere and predatory as always.

***

By age sixteen, the name Jim Moriarty was well known across a vast array of networks (albeit all in the same criminal niche). Good with technology, better with orchestrating large-scale endeavours, and utterly remorseless, he was invaluable. They would contact him with propositions, various kinds, that he would sift through with all the interest of someone watching paint dry, picking through everything from "my wife is cheating, I want her dead" to messages addressing him as "Mr Moriarty" referencing plans in cities scarcely smaller than London. 

The job itself was easy. He rarely had to do any dirty work, rather, he simply connected people to each other like a jigsaw puzzle, putting this client in contact with this hitman, hiring this crew to clean up the mess, and occasionally smoothing out the edges himself. It was certainly lucrative, which he enjoyed, but what struck him more was the abject desperation he found himself surrounded by. These people were at the end of their rope, no other way out, no one else to turn to that would do what he did as efficiently as he did. They needed him. At times, the thought was so dizzying it nearly made him sick. He loved it. 

***

He met Sebastian Moran after his eighteenth birthday, and after he had narrowly evaded enough attempts on his life that employing a bodyguard seemed reasonable. Jim did love the feeling of brushing against death, but the actuality of dying was not yet on his radar. 

After having worked with Moran a slight handful of times, Jim had been impressed with his power, his efficiency, his apparent loyalty, all the usual traits to be admired in an ex-soldier-turned-hitman, and had carefully weighed the benefits of hiring the man against the obvious disadvantages of placing his wellbeing in the palm of a stranger. He had to admit that there was a certain strange charm to Moran despite his lack of intellect, something innately comfortable about being around him. Jim hated it. In his world, comfort was the most dangerous thing one could feel. 

He hired Moran anyway, told him the bare minimum needed for the man to do his job, and the arrangement worked almost too well. Moran followed Jim like a dog, waiting to be set loose on whomever displeased Jim that day, tense in anticipation and straining at his leash. 

***

Two years later, and Jim couldn't imagine having anyone else guarding his life. Moran was a dream come true for him, a package deal of impeccably executed jobs and, as Jim noted only on a few occasions after a drink or two, a remarkably pleasant face. 

Besides that, Moran had quickly and thankfully grown accustomed to his boss's frequent outbursts, more like temper tantrums than anything else. After the first time Jim had suddenly buried a switchblade into Moran's thigh, not much the younger man did could surprise him. 

Jim did, for the record, stitch that wound up afterwards in a vague mockery of remorse, laying Moran unceremoniously on his kitchen table to pass the needle and thread through his skin. He had plenty of practice stitching wounds in his adolescence, both his own and others', but it never ceased to evoke in him an almost childlike fascination and joy. 

Moran complained about the stabbing for a week afterwards, but he continued to follow Jim's every word just the same, rolling his eyes as he muttered something along the lines of "'course I'm still here, you're my fucking boss."

Jim had shown his gratitude by kissing him so hard Moran's lip split, and then slapping him across the face for good measure. 

"You don't want to know what I'll do to you if you dare to speak to me like that again." His face was painted a caricature of boredom as he brushed a few strands of hair out of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao before anyone dunks on me for posting this in 2018 I wrote this in 12th grade (still about 5 years too late to be writing sherlock fic tbf) because I was bored in class and mad depressed so I was going back to some early adolescent comfort media. anyway moriarty is the only man ill ever love. title is from west coast smoker thank u and goodnight.


End file.
